THE DRESS
The dress was beautiful.
That was the worst part.
It was the kind of dress that would have caught my eye immediately in a boutique window.
Blue satin.
A narrow waist.
Delicate sleeves.
Elegant without trying too hard.
It was exactly the kind of dress I might have chosen for myself a few years earlier.
But my life had changed.
My daughter was three months old, and my body was still changing with her.
I wasn’t ashamed of that.
I wasn’t embarrassed by it.
I simply wasn’t interested in pretending that I could fit into the body I had before pregnancy just because someone else expected me to.
So when my mother-in-law, Clara, called me from a department store and told me she’d already ordered my dress for her fortieth anniversary dinner, I thanked her.
I assumed she had chosen something thoughtful.
I was wrong.
When the package arrived, I opened it while my daughter slept nearby in her bassinet.
The dress looked expensive.
Beautiful, even.
I unfolded it carefully and checked the tag.
Then I checked it again.
I thought there had to be a mistake.
The size was four sizes smaller than what I currently wore.
Not one size.
Not something I could possibly squeeze into with a little determination.
Four.
I actually laughed at first.
I thought the boutique had sent the wrong dress.
Maybe Clara had ordered the correct size and the store had made a mistake.
I decided to try it anyway.
I stepped into the dress.
I pulled.
Nothing.
I tried again.
The fabric stopped around my hips.
I couldn’t pull it any farther.
I stood in front of the mirror with one arm awkwardly caught inside the satin, staring at myself.
Then my baby started fussing from the bassinet.
I looked over at her.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “I know.”
I finally managed to get the dress off.
I folded it back into the box and called Clara.
She answered almost immediately.
“Did it arrive?”
“Yes.”
I hesitated.
“I think they sent the wrong size.”
There was a pause.
Then Clara laughed.
Not a confused laugh.
Not an embarrassed laugh.
A knowing laugh.
“No, honey,” she said. “That’s yours.”
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Clara, I can’t even get it on.”
“I know.”
Her voice was completely calm.
“The party is two weeks away. Plenty of time.”
“For what?”
Another small laugh.
Then she said the words I’ll never forget.
“It’s time for you to lose weight.”
I looked toward my sleeping daughter.
She had one tiny fist resting beside her cheek.
I could still remember how exhausted I’d been after giving birth.
How little sleep I’d had.
How many nights I’d spent holding that baby against my chest.
And Clara was telling me that I needed to lose four dress sizes in fourteen days.
“Clara,” I said quietly, “I had a baby three months ago.”
“And?”
I almost couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“And I’m not losing four dress sizes in two weeks.”
“Then perhaps you’ll finally have some motivation.”
I went silent.
She continued.
“My son has always taken care of himself. The least you could do is make an effort too.”
I stared at the box.
“An effort?”
“Don’t turn this into drama. Eat less. Walk more. You’ve had months.”
“Months?”
“Jennifer, when was the last time you looked at yourself properly?”
That question hurt more than I wanted to admit.
But I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of hearing that.
So I hung up.
I looked down at the dress again.
It was still beautiful.
But now all I could see was the insult sewn into the size tag.
And for the first time, I wondered whether Clara had chosen that dress because she wanted me to look beautiful…
or because she wanted me to feel small.
